


Captive

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [24]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Food, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alternate Universe, Gen, POV Loki (Marvel), POV Third Person Limited, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27756892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: For all the wild, horrible things Loki could think up as the outcome of Thor’s latest mad scheme, being captured by slavers is somehow unthinkable. But of course, the kind personages that they are, the Norns make it happen. And of course, they are brought to Asgard’s enemy realm. After that? Well, a particular captive change hands, but is it for the better?
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel), Loki & Thor (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) & Eðlenstr (OC), Loki (Marvel) & jötnar (Marvel)
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93
Collections: The Land of Ice and Snow





	Captive

**Author's Note:**

> This fic touches on slavery, folks, so please make sure that you are in a safe place mentally and perhaps also physically before reading it. In this fic, Loki and Thor are a century younger than they are in canon, and Odin has not yet announced his decision to abdicate. In comparison to modern human standard living well in big cities, they are 14-15 and 16-17 years old, respectively, in the eyes of Asgardians. For the jötnar, however, they are comparable to 9ish and 10ish, respectively.
> 
> Started on: 11th July 2019 at 08:09 AM  
> Finished on: 28th November 2020 at 02:21 PM

Loki tosses an angry glance at Thor – his brother, the Crown Prince of Asgard, the cocky and very, very stupid _not-yet_ -man – before he is hauled into the transport cage, like some _cattle_. “This is all _your_ fault,” the glance says, and Loki has no qualm in broadcasting it loud and clear. After all, a month ago, purportedly to celebrate Loki’s birthday and strengthen their brotherly bond, the utter _oaf_ proposed an outing just for the two of them. Without telling anybody where they were going and what they were going to do, with Loki’s “tricks” to fool Heimdall’s sight in place, and of course using the Hidden Paths instead of the Bifrost.

And Loki was _also_ excluded from knowing the secret, until the very day of their departure: _today_.

“We are just going to visit Knowhere as _tourists_ , brother. What is the harm of it?” Thor said, this morning, when Loki protested fiercely to going on the supposed lark to such an open, not-so-safe place without any preparation. “You could indulge your scholarly pursuits for a few candlemarks, then we could go tavern hopping. We might even cultivate new relationships with some fellow visitors there, for Asgard, if you wish so. And think of the souvenirs that we could bring home!”

Well, Thor seldom arranged something for just the two of them, as they grew up and grew apart, so, however reluctantly, Loki indulged him.

If he knew that Thor would offend a few powerful, knowledgeable and well-armed slavers in one of the taverns that they ended up visiting, however, he would _never_ have consented to go in this supposedly tame and brief secret outing.

To be corralled in seiðr-inhabiting cuffs and leash is _horrible_. To be fought over only to be _owned_ through a lucky draw like some object is _humiliating_. To be informed that they are going to be slaves in _Jötunheim_ is… something beyond any single thought or emotion that Loki nonetheless thinks and feels _and focuses on_.

Thor keeps hollering apologies from where the oaf is kept, a few cages away, as the ship that bears them speeds to the detested realm of the frost giants and the _supposed_ final goodbye to their freedom. Loki ignores him studiously and thinks of plans upon plans upon plans. His cage-mates help, inadvertently, by hollering back to Thor every so often to shut up.

**O-O-O-O**

The ship goes through a few stops along the way. Each time, the cages become fuller and fuller with struggling-and-cursing or beaten-half-to-death sentients of various species.

And then, the ship halts somewhere that feels _familiar_ to Loki’s seiðr, however suppressed it is at present.

Instinct urges him to act _now_ , somehow, and so he lets out his loudest mental shout for help, before his mind can even process what the impulse wishes him to do, regardless of all the carefully crafted plans that he has been building.

And, as if in answer, a commotion soon breaks far, far away, before it spills into the cargo hold of the ship where the cages are located, through the same way the “merchandises” were brought.

The slavers are alternately squawking out their outrage and claims of innocence, even as they seem to be pushed into the cargo hold by new, large-sounding – no, not loud, just… large – and stern-sounding voices.

` _Law enforcement?_ ` Loki privately wonders. ` _Is there such a thing in Jötunheim? Are we in Jötunheim already? How do I know? Why is this place familiar to me? It is not Asgard or Vanaheim, that much I know, but…._ ` He frowns. ` _Do I need to care about it at present?_ `

` _No, I do not,_ ` a part of him – the part where the impulse originated – decides, just before it makes him shout for help again, even more frantically than before for added measure.

Just as the cacophonous procession enters the cargo hold, at that.

And then everything goes deathly silent.

` _Please, save us, save me. I am located on the middle area,_ ` Loki tries, next, encouraged by the results he has gotten thus far from both of his much-less-formed pleas. He will either free everyone – including Thor, regrettably – using his power once he charms whoever bothering the slavers into releasing him from the seiðr-suppressing cuffs and leash, or they will do so themselves if they are indeed _honourable_ law enforcement. But for now, ` _Please, I beg of you._ ` He makes himself sound young and vulnerable; not a difficult feat now that he has lost nearly all access to his seiðr and depends on others to free him.

Two ás-like beings, each garbed in what looks like an armoured bodysuit that covers only the trunk of the body, suddenly materialise before the cage that holds Loki alongside three other “merchandises.” Their eyes, one pair reddish brown while the other brownish yellow, shining hard and shrewdly beneath close-cropped black hair, sweep the occupants of the cage quickly but thoroughly and expertly before honing in on Loki and locking on his own green eyes.

Their faces harden _even more_ , just so. But the question, when it comes to him mentally like how his pleas were broadcast, is delivered in a gentle if no-nonsense tone: ` _What are you called, child?_ `

Loki frowns, yet again. – His real name would net him either more help or greater trouble. He does need to capitalise on this moment, however, as he hopes that, by addressing him as a child, they will more readily help him instead of capitalising on his weakness. And speaking untruth including a fake name would likely get him into a bigger trouble than his real name would bring.

Well, there is a name that he likes to use in his travels alone. A name that is as much his as “Loki Odinson” is. A name that somehow resonates _even deeper_ in his psyche than “Loki Odinson” does, truth be told.

` _Loptr. I am Loptr._ `

The faces of the would-be rescuers harden _further_ , if it were possible. But, in the next moment, they are not just _would-be_ rescuers, indeed, thankfully.

The cage’s door opens as if on its own, even as the slavers cry in alarm from afar before falling silent again. Before the other occupants can scramble out, however, one of the two beings motions with a hand and Loki finds himself drawn to them, lifted up a little from the filthy flooring of his little prison.

“Who are you?” he speaks with his mouth for the first time, marvelling at the blatant use of seiðr so far away from Vanaheim, where such practises are not frowned upon.

“Tora’s patrol guards,” the being who is not in the process of freeing him answers. And then neither has any more chance to speak, as Loki helps the now-semi-identified guards free the other “merchandises.”

He is spirited away before he can go to the next cage, however.

And, just outside of the ship, the two guards that rescued him, that keep him company as if adults with a child indeed, shift into a pair of _frost giants_.

**O-O-O-O**

Following the trend of the first meeting, Loki is kept only at the fringes of the scouring and rescue missions that the jötnar conduct – firstly nearby the place he was found, then throughout their realm – to save any more slaves and bring any slavers or slave owners to justice. He is even kept out of such altogether past the first two missions or so, when the jötun healers insist that he endure some rest and therapy to “return his health to normal” instead of gallivanting everywhere. He is housed in the abode of the town’s – Tora’s – Chief of Defence by the name of Eðlenstr Eðlýnnar-childe, a jötun too perky and cuddle-happy to be believable as a warrior, or a frost-giant warrior, let alone the chief of a group of admitedly competent warriors.

His captors go selectively deaf when, each time, he tries to convince them that he is not a jötun and only looks like a disguised jötun by accidence of birth, so their attempts to turn him into a blue giant will always meet with failure. He is a shape-shifter, anyway, he tells them, so he actually can turn into a frost giant whenever he wants.

And the temporary deafness happens also when he tries to convince them that he needs to go home with Thor, who firstly lingered on his own volition then got himself incarcerated when he foolishly promised to send Asgard’s armed forces to free Loki when he got home. Unfortunately, somehow, in the intervening centuries, the jötnar have apparently found a way to block the Bifrost, because Loki’s attempts to call on Heimdall meet with failure, even after he has divested all stealth and secrecy wards from his person, so he is just as trapped as Thor is.

He eats, drinks, “suns” himself under moonlight, studies various records, reluctantly interacts with “other children”, and paint the walls together with Eðlenstr whenever the latter has some spare time, under the instruction and hawk-eyed attention of both Eðlenstr and the healers. And all the while, he wonders if he was freed from one set of slavers only to fall into the clutches of yet another set. Because _all_ his escape attempts thus far have met with failure, too, although he has not been punished or restricted after each.

**O-O-O-O**

One “morning,” just as sunlight is fading into moonlight, an uncharacteristically very solemn, very silent Eðlenstr comes bearing a stone cylindrical container full of what they claim as “pebbled milk,” which are indeed pebble-shaped, if shining silvery blue, almost like gemstones.

The healers and guards are ordered to vacate the vicinity – _all_ guards, not only the ones present round his current shelter, as there are also guards escorting Eðlenstr, indeed, this time, unlike all the times before.

It is as though the “pebbled milk” were sacred in a way, or quite important, or both, that it would require such personage to come bearing it here in a ceremony, accompanied by honour guards, who then have to leave alongside any other person _but Loki himself_.

` _But why me?_ `

Before he can ask, however, and just as the room is secured, _the container is proffered to him, on bended knee_.

“What should I do with this?” Loki asks politely, hiding how nervous and confused he is in truth.

“Suck at one of the pebbles, please,” is the resulting request, in a serious tone that he _never_ heard from the cheerful and odd warrior before this. It makes him even more unnerved, but he obeys, all the same, just like before, biding his time till he can escape this place.

He selects one randomly from the pile and brings it to his nose.

The texture of the thing is odd: not quite as hard as ice, not without a smell either. And the smell itself….

He finds himself suckling eagerly at the thing before he truly registers what he is doing. Worse, _he cannot stop_. His hand reaches into the container proffered to him again and again and again and again, and he keeps bringing it to his mouth, and it never fails to melt on his tongue and travel down into his body and spread from his stomach to _everywhere_ , and it _changes_ him from inside, little by little, inexorably, irrevocably.

Except, somehow, it does not feel like changing him as it does _returning_ him to a state and shape that is just as intrinsically familiar to him as his real body is. It even sures him up and gets rid of some foreign bindings that he never knew he had until they are eroded away.

It is powerful. It is seemingly custom-made for him. And, above all, it feels like he once knew it from somewhere.

Loki is only aware of his surroundings once more when he reaches into the container and finds no more of the odd edible pebbles to be had. His throat reverberates in a small, broken wail before he is even aware that he is the one letting out such sound.

“There is more of it, outside,” Eðlenstr whispers, in a similarly cracked voice. And, astonishingly, they are still kneeling patiently before him, holding the container up for him.

“Outside,” he parrots dumbly, then his thoughts sluggishly stirs. ` _What is outside? Why did they not bring it here? Why did it not offer to bring more to me? Shall I temp myself further by going outside? What will this thing change in me, next?_ `

Well, his feet decide it for him. They already move to the door of the room that he – for some reason – shares with Eðlenstr and the visiting Grand General of Jötunheim – Ýmirheim, they call it here – before he even manages to come up with his options, let alone planning for eventualities. ` _What a dangerous and potant substance I have been exposed to! Did the healers know that Eðlenstr was going to drug me?_ `

And then all thoughts fly cleanly out of his mind as, outside of the abode, his eyes land on a figure surrounded by warriors that is almost unmistakably _Laufey_.

_Almost_. Because, from all the illustrations he heard from the veterans of the Asgard-Jötunheim war and read on the manuscripts alike, the king of the frost giants seemed to be a fearsome creature, more beast than sentient, and certainly _male_. However, the creature he now chances upon is alien but definitely intelligent, and _definitely female_ with those large breasts beneath – or at least shaped – by the battered, leathery armour.

And… she… is looking right at _him_ , as if already waiting for him to come out for some time.

And the whole place is indeed filled with some great anticipation, some great hope, thick enough to be nearly tangible.

Loki blanches. ` _Now would be a good time for Heimdall to rescue me!_ ` he thinks. But he is nudged to move forward instead from behind by Eðlenstr.

And, before he has even completed a reactive step forward, the-jötun-who-may-be-Laufey is already rushing towards him _and picking him up like a little child_.

And it feels… right. Somehow. Shockingly. Unbelievingly. Ludicrously.

Something that she radiates feels like the power contained in those odd, edible, potantly addictive pebbles. And, just like the pebbles, Loki is helpless against it – against _her_.

She rubs the back of his neck, gently, soothingly, and the hapless ás topples into her eager embrace, into the cocoon of her power – _very, very, very familiar power_.

` _Loptr, Loptr, Loptr,_ ` an androgynous voice sing-songs in his mind; not his but… hers? And the voice is just as familiar as the power is; even more familiar than the voices of his own parents, than his own mother who has born him in her body for months.

` _Who are you?_ ` he pleads through the same manner of communication, as he helplessly, instinctively snuggles deeper into the cocoon of her arms and power – her sheer _presence_.

The jötun cocks her head and stares bemusedly at him for that, but soon _grins goofily_ when his traitorous mouth lets out a content sigh after she vanishes her armour, leaving her person softer for a cuddle, if less soft than his mother felt when he was small and sought comfort from her.

His question has not been dismissed or forgotten, however, unlike what he firstly thinks. Because, then, with her presence and seiðr-born protection cocooning him snugly, she turns round to face the gathered warriors, raises him high like a trophy that she has just won, and cries jubilantly, “Behold, Loptr Laufey-childe! Half of my firstborn has been found!”

And the front yard of Eðlenstr’s abode rings with a great cheer, as though the warriors had just been presented with a great feast or a chance to eradicate the last-and-worst of the slavers, instead of their first rescuee who has just behaved quite like a small child _in addition_ to looking like one indeed.

No, the jötnar are not monstrous, he decides, as some of the warriors approach tentatively, looking eager to apparently remake his acquaintance under the new light, as if visiting friends and acquaintances of a woman who wanted to take a look and coo over her new child that they had not seen since the child’s birth.

No, they are not monstrous as much as _weird_.

And he cannot flee their attention – the attention of warriors turned _cooing women_.

` _Oh, Norns, **why**?_`

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wanted to add Laufey's reaction to finding their baby captured as a slave, not to mention brought to right under their nose, and perhaps afterwards, but the muse scrapped it. I hope this was entertaining enough already for you, given that sad outcome. Thank you for reading!  
> Rey


End file.
